


Sacred Isles Are Seen in Haze

by Leitis



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Drugs, F/F, Gen, Mentions of alcohol, Sheogorath here is the player character in case that was unclear, Shivering Isles, can be read as dub-con, custom!fem!Sheo is mean to her subjects, general insanity in the air, minor AU - Sontaire is pansexual here, non-explicit f/f sex, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leitis/pseuds/Leitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheogorath gets bored and throws a party, Sanguine-style. Then she gets bored again, but soon finds herself another entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Isles Are Seen in Haze

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm finally posting this. Reviews and concrit (including any grammar mistakes or awkward wording on my part) is much appreciated. Title is from a poem by N.Gumilev, translated by Y.Bonver.

The festival at the Palace was splendid, as usual.

It was not, of course, meant to celebrate any particular occasion – their Lord was known to despise all the dull and lacklustre annual events (going as far as prohibiting birthday celebrations on the Isles, though Aureal and Mazken tended to be lenient towards the offenders). Instead, she preferred to throw parties whenever it struck her fancy – usually with barely an hour’s notice. This particular festival, however, had been announced almost half a day in advance, giving Sontaire an opportunity to do her make-up and hair-do, and pick out a proper dress. She was, in fact, quite proud of her garment – it fit her like a second skin, covering everything, but hiding practically nothing. Bodice lifted and emphasized her breasts nicely, and the lovely green tint of fabric brought out her eyes. 

All in all, Sontaire felt confident and in high spirits as she sauntered through the courtyard. Practically all of New-Sheoth citizens were in attendance, as no one liked missing their Lord’s parties – partly because of free food, drink and entertainment, and partly because Lord Sheogorath knew every single face in her city and often got irritated when not witnessing all of them on her festivities. Sontaire vaguely remembered that poor Argonian, Big Head, who had missed the last year’s festival in favour of breaking into all of his neighbours’ empty houses and stealing their forks. Their Lord had not been amused and had stormed his house with a whole contingent of Aureal, demanding explanation for his absence. No one had seen Big Head for several months after that lamentable occurrence, and when he did return, he kept twitching and wincing for weeks afterwards, clutching a spoon close. Sontaire recalled hearing a rumour that the Argonian had only ever been using that spoon since then, never as much as touching another fork.

The fireworks were truly marvellous, especially the ones that literally set guests and decorations on fire, but everyone in attendance were required to present themselves to their Lord upon arrival, so Sontaire made her way up the stairs and to the entrance to the throne room, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

The throne room was brightly lit, but with plenty of dark corners and alcoves left for those who preferred shadow. There was no actual music, but various sounds permeated the air – birds chirping and whales singing, despite the obvious lack of any animal life on the party; joyous laughter from one of the guests and muffled sobbing from another. Various scents assaulted Sontaire at once; the most intense one reminded her of spices and forest fire smoke. Guards in freshly polished armour were playing the role of waiters for the night, despite their obvious displeasure. Aureal were offering assorted wines from both Cyrodiil and the Isles, as well as skooma, greenmote and felldew. The choice of wines on Mazkens’ trays was less impressive, and no other substances were offered, but those wishing to set a dispute with someone else invited could get a small, inconspicuous bottle of poison from them; as well as a stylish dagger, if their hearts wished for a bloodier confrontation.

Making her way past the crowd, Sontaire approached the throne and dropped into a low curtsey. Lord Sheogorath was lounging in her seat, idly surveying the crowd and twirling a throwing star in her fingers. She wore a form of a young Dunmer female, as she usually did these last few years. The garment she wore reminded Sontaire of the one she had seen on Duke Thadon before his demise. Her Lord was barefoot, her left ankle resting on her right knee (both her legs were very finely shaped, Sontaire noticed). She could also see the Chamberlain Haskill standing to the left of the throne with a vaguely pained expression on his face.

“Ah. Sontaire. A pleasure, really,” the Madgod drawled. “Rise already, will you? As charming as your hair-style is, I’d also like to see the rest of you.”

“You are too kind, my Lord,” Sontaire murmured demurely as she rose to her feet gracefully. Someone screamed in the distance.

“Not at all. I merely observe what I see,” Sheogorath shrugged. “Well. And I see now that the rest of you is also quite eye-pleasing. This attire suits you well.”

Haskill’s face became ever-so-slightly more pained.

“Tell me,” Sheogorath continued without a pause, not giving Sontaire an opportunity to thank her for another compliment, “is this party to your enjoyment? Personally, I’m finding it a bit dull so far. Not enough entertainment. Guests are boring, dancers and jugglers should refresh their repertoire a bit, and if I wanted wine, I could have drunk it alone in my rooms. I thought about unroofing the palace maybe, to let in some fresh air and starlight, and to watch my dear subjects running about like baliwogs on fire, but Haskill said good masons are hard to find in the Realm these days. Can you imagine? I told him that I can restore the roof as easily as blast it off, of course, not to mention go and personally bless some capable masons out there if they’re in such short supply on the Isles. But he had already ruined my fun with that comment. Seems to be all he’s doing these days. What do you think?” The Madgod’s attention, which seems to migrate all over the room as she delivered her monologue, abruptly shifted back to Sontaire.

She swallowed, feeling oddly daring.

“I dare not presume to advice my Lord on matters of… redecorating the palace. But I do hope my Lord finds my company at least somewhat agreeable.”

“Do I? I suppose I do.” Sheogorath quirked an eyebrow, her pupilless, murky-pink eyes boring into Sontaire. “Well. Since you’re here, it would be rude not to offer you a drink. Or would it not? I admit all this etiquette escapes me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because it’s unbelievably boring. Anyway.” She gestured lazily to an Aureal standing guard nearby, who silently stepped behind the throne and filled a goblet from a… fountain? Sontaire had never noticed there was a fountain in the throne room. She accepted the full goblet the Aureal offered her, and took a tentative sip.

The liquid looked and tasted simply as water, but the first mouthful made all lingering aches and discomforts she had from walking all the way here in her high-heeled shoes, from accidentally banging her elbow against a table yesterday, from forgetting to eat a dinner, disappear. The second one made her feel light as air on her feet. The third one allowed Sontaire discern a hundred different colours around her, most of which she never knew even existed. The rest she gulped down without bothering to analyse her feeling further and handed the empty goblet back to the guard, smiling dazedly at her Lord.

“Isn’t it a pretty glow, to suit your pretty eyes?” Sheogorath commented, seemingly amused. “Come now. I’ll show you the gardens of Mania.” 

With that, she rose to her feet, still not bothering with any footwear. Gently, she took Sontaire’s hand and led her to the right wing of the palace, with everyone hastily shuffling out of the way. They got to the corridor leading further into Mania’s part of the Palace when Sheogorath stopped and gestured with her free hand. The doors on the both ends of the corridor closed shut with an audible click of latches, leaving them alone.

“So we are not going to see the gardens after all?” Sontaire asked with a little giggle.

“Halcyon Conservatory is open to the public, you can come there whenever you like.” Sheogorath reminded her dryly. 

“But maybe I wanted to go there with you,” she pouted and barely stifled another giggle, feeling pleasantly lightheaded.

Sheogorath snorted. “Fine, we can go there later, if you’d like.” She then leaned closer to Sontaire and nuzzled her neck lightly, making a sound not unlike a purr. Sontaire noticed, to her vague surprise, that the Madgod was barely an inch shorter than her – previously, when she was sitting on her throne, she looked almost child-like, short and with delicate features. Now, there was no mistaking her for anything other than a grown-up woman.

Sheogorath pressed her to the wall, licked her earlobe briefly, stroke her fingers down the length of her unclothed arms. Her fingers started searching for the clasps of Sontaire’s dress.

Sontaire blinked thoughtfully, studying the gorgeous face in front of her. Then she realized what was wrong and let out a soft laughter.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “I don’t really do submissive.” She raised a hand to untie the black ribbon that held the mass of the Madgod’s bright blue hair together. The ribbon fell to the floor; Sontaire buried her hand in that mass of hair, tugged down sharply and bit down on her Lord’s bared throat.

Sheogorath let out a startled moan. Her hands tensed briefly on Sontaire’s back before falling to her sides.

Sontaire’s pale golden skin provided delightful contrast to Sheogorath’s bluish-grey, as she learned a few minutes later, when the Madgod’s heavy, many-layered garment fell to the floor. She also learned all the different ways Sheogorath’s hair smelled – spices and smoke, like earlier in the throne room, but also sand and salt, jasmine and greenmote. She was certain she would never forget the taste of Sheogorath’s blood, licked fresh from her lips – surprisingly mundane, not so different from all other blood she had tasted, but very cold, almost freezing her tongue and throat, despite Sheogorath’s skin being only slightly cool. She would also remember all the sounds echoing through that empty corridor – whispers and sighs and screams and clothes’ rustling.

And invisible to her, Sheogorath smiled triumphantly.


End file.
